


Virtue Over Avarice: 5th Anniversary Gold Edition

by Yessydo



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: 2nd Edition, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Inappropriate Mentor/Mentee Relationship, M/M, Original Story Written 2015, Rewrite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22900444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yessydo/pseuds/Yessydo
Summary: (From 2015)"Eggsy crashes his stepfather's car into the front window of a quaint but reputable tailor's shop on Savile Row and, thanks to the charitable spirit of its mysterious owner, ends up working there to pay the damages.AU where Harry is an actual tailor and Eggsy is...still a delinquent."It came to my attention that my little "Regular People AU" was turning five years old, so I took a second stab at it. Tune in to see whether I've grown at all as a writer since I was 19!
Relationships: Amelia/Roxy Morton | Lancelot, Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin
Comments: 3
Kudos: 115





	1. Foreword

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Virtue Over Avarice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3440942) by [Yessydo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yessydo/pseuds/Yessydo). 



In the fall of 2019, I found an old backup drive from my current laptop’s grandtop. (i.e. two laptops ago. I don’t think it’ll catch on either.) On it was a sizeable folder of fan fiction from as recently as 2015 to as far back as 2006, which hadn’t been passed down to the second generation and likewise had never made it to the third. I actually posted one of them a little while ago: a piece of Metalocalypse smut named after a Beyoncé song (2013 was a wild time). While reading through my catalogue and cringing myself inside out, I happened to notice that Virtue Over Avarice was approaching its 5th anniversary. It was also the only work on the drive that had been previously published on AO3 (RIP my days on fanfiction.net). I decided not to let the opportunity go to waste and take another stab at my most popular work.

Revisiting Virtue Over Avarice for the first time in five years, there were a number of things I feel I could have done better, both technically (clarity, sentence composition, grammar, syntax &c.) and artistically (plot, pacing, dialogue). I was a few months shy of 20 when I wrote the first edition, and I would not be hurt to hear that it shows. More exuberant than experienced, I made the story up as I went along and published each chapter as I finished it. I proofread for egregious errors in spelling and grammar, and deleted floating fragments of sentences from old ideas I chose not to pursue, but largely left it at that. I did no drafts, no editing to speak of, and seldom referred back to earlier chapters for continuity. There are moments in the original where it is embarrassingly clear that I simply became bored and papered over plot points in favour of simply getting to the good stuff, and I believe the story suffered for it. At 19 I was a plain fool. Now, I’m a fool whose ADHD is being treated.

I have left the majority of plot beats unaltered, but endeavoured to clean up the prose. My aim in this exercise was not to create a new work, but instead to fill in the framework I put up five years ago. I hope I added a bit more dimension to my interpretation of these characters and demystified their motivations somewhat. I also tried to acknowledge the moral ambiguity at the heart of the central relationship of this story.It remains a work of fanciful romantic melodrama, but one which is hopefully marginally better written.

Finally, and perhaps foremost (brace for full cornball, everyone), this was an immensely fun project to take a on and complete. It can be painful to look back at past work, hindsight being the harshest critic a writer has, but going back over feedback from the original readers five years ago helped remind me of how rewarding the act of creating and sharing stories can be. I have no idea whether there is an audience for this — I’ll be astonished if any of you even make it to the end of this sentimental fool’s self-indulgent screed — but I have enjoyed the process and hope that I’ve managed to make something entertaining.

I’d like to extend my gratitude to everyone who enjoyed, commented on and gave kudos to the original Virtue Over Avarice. I can only hope your enjoyment survives this iteration.

\- Yessydo

March 2020

Still no beta for any of this, by the way! Adjust your expectations, folks.


	2. Chapter 2

Eggsy’s ears were ringing. He opened his eyes and watched the airbag of his stepfather’s car deflate with a pitiful hiss. Picking up his head up from where it was resting on the steering wheel, he began to survey the damage. Columns of black smoke rose from the warped and buckled hood of the vehicle and the impact of the crash had relocated the dashboard to fit snugly in Eggsy’s lap. He felt fuzzy, his senses dull and slow as he gradually gathered his wits. Slowly looking around the car, he was relieved to find both the passenger and back seats empty. At least Ryan and Jamal had managed to avoid the cops. One of London’s finest approached the wreck, rapping on the driver’s side window and beaming his torch right into Eggsy’s face. He squinted, shielding his eyes with a hand.

“You alive in there, son?” The officer asked. Eggsy nodded and offered a groan. The cop nodded, “Good to hear. You’re under arrest.”

———

Eggsy sat across a rickety folding table from a DC with the face of a cut-rate Clive Owen and a cheap grey suit that was at once too large and too small. He had introduced himself as Ineson and set straight about performing his solo good-cop-bad-cop routine. He began by offering a cup of coffee, which Eggsy flippantly declined, at which point he abruptly changed tack.

“Listen,” he growled, “you and your little friends made quite the mess last night. We’re talking tens of thousands of pounds in damages, mate.” Eggsy shrugged,

“Bad luck,” he said, “I don’t have my piggy bank with me.” Ineson nodded,

“Right, well, I’m sure the victim would agree that eighteen months in prison would about cover it.” Eggsy set his jaw and rolled his eyes from beneath lowered brows, saying nothing. Ineson continued, slipping back into the earnest posture of the voice of reason. “Of course, if you were to tell us a little more about your accomplices, that might be taken into consideration. Eggsy sneered,

“I ain’t giving up my mates,” he spat, “I’m no grass.” The constable leaned forward.

“Eggsy, there is no such thing as honour amongst thieves.” He explained, patiently, “Now, you can start giving me some names of the boys you were with, or you go down.” He kept his gaze levelled at Eggsy, “It’s up to you.” Eggsy scoffed,

“Get fucked.” He explained. Ineson got up from the table, miming washing his hands,

“Alright then,” he conceded, “we’ve got the owner in the other room. I wonder if he’ll be moved by your loyalty to your mates.” He closed the door forcefully behind him, leaving Eggsy alone to contemplate the gravity of what he’d just done. His face started to feel numb and cold, his limbs heavy, like he’d fallen into a frozen lake. He was going to go to prison, and he’d just thrown away his last chance to do anything about it. He started to feel short of breath and put his head in his hands. Eighteen months, he had said. Eggsy was suddenly gripped with panic.A year and a half banged up. A year and a half for his mum and sister to be alone in the flat with Dean. He hadn’t thought this through. Ineson suddenly opened the door again, startling Eggsy back upright. He did his best to look composed and unperturbed. The DC’s face wore a look of frustration and disbelief, brow knit, mouth pursed into a thin, tight line.

“It’s your lucky fucking day, Eggsy my boy.” He said, tossing a manilla folder onto the table in front of them. Eggsy regarded him suspiciously,

“What’re you talking about?” Ineson went on,

“For some reason, and don’t fucking as me why because I don’t know, the man whose shop you caved in last night isn’t interested in pursuing any action against you whatsoever.” Eggsy let a smug grin creep across his lips,

“Is that right?” He said.

“No, it’s not right,” said Ineson, “but it’s what happening. Don’t get too cocky, though. there are one or two conditions to go along with this act of charity.” Naturally this was too good to be true, Eggsy thought. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“What do I gotta do? Public apology? Community service?” Ineson opened the folder and slid it closer to Eggsy.

“He said he’ll ask us to forego criminal charges if you work in his shop until you’ve paid off the damages.” Eggsy’s eyebrows shot up,

“Oh, so I just gotta be his slave, yeah?” He scoffed and turned his face toward the wall.

“He said he’s happy to pay you a garnished wage.”

“Much better,” Eggsy muttered, “anyway, what if I say no?” Ineson gave an easy shrug.

“We already talked about prison already, didn’t we?” Eggsy groaned and ran a hand through his cropped, brown hair. Ineson once again made for the door, “I’ll give you a minute or two to think it over.” He smirked and exited. Eggsy stared down at the pen and papers in front of him. It was a contract, printed on letterhead bearing the name “Kingsman Tailors”. Eggsy didn’t like this. There was no way it was legitimate. This contract had to be some kind of cleverly disguised confession statement. He ran his eyes carefully over the entire document, but found only information about the job. Pay, hours, duties. There was a redacted section, but when Eggsy held it up to the light he discovered it was nothing more than informed consent to conduct a criminal records check. Eggsy clasped his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling. In many ways, the choice was obvious: sign the contract, don’t go to prison, and continue to be there for his mum and Daisy. Still, what kind of person was this Harry Hart bloke that he used the police station as a recruiting agency? He took a deep breath and picked up the pen, reluctantly scribbling his name next to Mr. Hart’s elegant yet understated signature. Ineson returned, presumably from behind the one-way mirror he’d been watching from, and informed Eggsy that he was free to go. Eggsy threw him one last shit-eating grin for the road, but spent his entire bus ride home second-guessing himself. At least he’d have been safe from Dean in Pentonville.

———

Michelle Unwin was furious and ecstatic in equal measure when her son walked through the door to their flat that afternoon. She embraced Eggsy, then slapped him across the face, then kissed it better and held him tightly again, lecturing him between sniffs and sobs.

“I’ve had enough of this sort of thing, young man, do you hear me?”Eggsy patted her back, reassuringly,

“I know, mum,” he said, meek and sincere, “I’m sorry.” Michelle pulled out of the hug, levelling her puffy but severe gaze at Eggsy.

“One of these days you’re going to get worse than an ASBO.” Eggsy laughed,

“No ASBO,” he said.

“Oh god,” his mother wailed, “a trial, is it?”. Eggsy intercepted her despair, elaborating,

“They let me go. Geezer didn’t want to take it to court.”

“Don’t you lie to me, Gary Unwin,” his mother warned, raising an accusatory finger toward him.

“I ain’t lying,” Eggsy insisted, “he wants me to work off the damages in his shop. That’s all.” Relieved, if incredulous, Michelle returned to the sofa and flopped down, hard.

“Only my boy could turn an arrest into a job interview,” she chuckled, a little manically. Eggsy smiled and swung open the fridge door, casting his eyes around for anything he could turn into a halfway decent meal.

———

Eggsy’s mum had warned him that he was playing with fire by staying in the flat tonight. Dean had blown her off when she had asked him how late he planned to be out,

“But if he finds you here when he gets back…” She shook her head. Eggsy rolled his eyes, responding through a mouthful of pot noodle,

“I think I can handle one old alkie.”

“Eggsy!” Michelle chided, sharply. Eggsy made a perfunctory apology and, with a raised eyebrow, dared his mother to deny it. She did not. They both turned back toward the episode of Strictly that neither of them were watching, sitting in tense silence until Eggsy excused himself to his room. He shut the door behind him, considering for a moment before locking it. He lay down on his bed and checked his phone. No missed calls, no messages, not even from the lads. He supposed they were lying low for a bit, given that they didn’t know the cops would be leaving them be. After a few minutes, Eggsy got to thinking about his new employer. Surely there was an ulterior motive at play. The tailor’s must be a front for drugs or guns, maybe something as innocuous as tax fraud. At any rate, he was obviously looking for someone disposable and unsavoury, and Eggsy couldn’t deny he fit the bill. Still, he couldn’t afford to get in any more trouble. Today had been too close a call, with Eggsy fully aware that he had escaped by the skin of his teeth.

He didn’t really sleep that night, spending hour after hour absently listening to music with only one earbud in, paying rapt attention to every little noise in the flat or on the terrace. He heard the door open around 2am, then slam shut. He tensed, glancing around for something he could use as a weapon if things started to heat up. The noise woke Daisy and she started to cry. He heard his mother stir moments later, quieting the baby before murmuring something to Dean. He snapped at her in return — Eggsy could make out the words “fucking bitch”, but not much else. Suddenly, Michelle was pleading, backtracking, apologizing, and Eggsy sat up, spring-loaded, face burning. He was prepared to jump in at the first sign of trouble, but his vigilance was uncalled for. Dean seemed placated for now, slurring something unintelligible before plodding off toward his and Michelle’s room, his uneven, shuffling gate indicative of the severity of his inebriation. The door closed, and the flat was quiet. Eggsy lay back down, but remained alert, his hearing trained on the shared wall between their bedrooms. It wasn’t until he heard Dean’s snoring that he allowed himself to relax. He sighed, feeling the adrenaline ebb away, and tried closing his eyes. He decided it didn’t matter what he had to do for Harry Hart. If there was a chance he could make things better for the people he loved, he would try.


	3. Chapter 3

It felt like Eggsy had only just closed his eyes when his alarm went off the next morning. He hastily turned it off before the noise could wake Dean, if such a thing were possible. He’d heard the man sleep through construction, sirens and even gunshots after a night out. Eggsy dragged himself sluggishly out of bed and opened his closet. He examined his clothes for a long time, flipping past hangers of hoodies and bombers in search of something more professional. There had been no mention of a uniform in the contract, but it seemed likely that some kind of dress code would be enforced. Eggsy had never met a tailor, but he imagined they didn’t wear trainers and chains. In the end, he settled on a white button-up and a pair of dark grey slacks, two pieces of a suit he had last worn to his grandfather’s funeral nearly five years prior. The fit was a bit snug, Eggsy having filled out considerably since he was seventeen, but it would suffice for the moment. He tiptoed to their small kitchenette and fixed himself a hearty breakfast of cold cereal with not enough milk. He silently apologized to his mum for the earful she was going to get from Dean later when there was none left for his bloody tea. Spotting the time on the microwave clock, Eggsy wolfed his bowl and bolted.

———

The contract stipulated that he was to arrive at work no later than 8:30am, and Eggsy was worried he wasn’t going to make it in time. His bus had been late by close to a quarter hour, then been rear-ended by some half-asleep idiot six blocks from Eggsy’s destination. He had been forced to run the rest of the way, unwilling to wait for the next bus, making it to the shop practically on the dot. Eggsy stopped to catch his breath for a moment and, for the first time in the cold light of day, caught sight of the carnage he had inflicted. He had hit the wrought iron fence so hard that it had been bent nearly ninety degrees, forming a sort of grate into which most of the glass had fallen. Three mannequins lay on top, strewn about like corpses at a murder scene. Eggsy climbed the short staircase to the front door, crunching over some stray shards as he went A small chime rang as he entered. There was no one in sight.

“Hello,” he called through the silent shop. After a moment, a man appeared from somewhere in the back of the building. He was tall, built slight but with an air of authority to his posture. He was wearing an impeccable double-breasted black suit and a subtly striped blue silk tie, matching his pocket square. His dark brown eyes examined Eggsy from behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses with a concentration usually reserved for slides under a microscope. The rest of his face was entirely impassive.

“Ah, you must be Eggsy.” His voice was light, but not especially friendly, “Good to finally meet you.” He took a few steps forward and extended a hand for Eggsy to shake.

“You too…Mr. Hart, I’m guessing?”

“Harry,” said Harry. There was a pause. Eggsy wondered if he should fill it. He could apologize for wrecking the shop, but maybe it was best not to mention it. Finally, the tailor took a sharp inhale and clapped his hands together, “Well,” he continued, “now that we’re acquainted, I’ve got to take inventory.” He picked up a large broom and a long-handled dustpan and handed them to Eggsy, “Why don’t you begin by clearing up the pavement? I do appreciate your design input, but my clientele are used to a more traditional storefront aesthetic.” Eggsy would ordinarily have some snide rejoinder ready to fire back, but Harry had an easy, disarming wit that Eggsy just didn’t know how to counter. Besides, he didn’t seem like he was looking for trouble. He offered Harry a confused thank-you and made for the door, cheeks flushing red as he turned away.

First, Eggsy hauled the mannequins back inside, doing his best to replace them in the now warped and splintered display. The glass, however, posed a challenge. He’d had to lie on top of the twisted fence, and, holding the broom and dustpan handles with the tips of his fingers, lower them down onto the landing below. It was clumsy and slow, but it eventually produced results. He carefully retrieved the pan and emptied its contents into a pair of doubled-up rubbish bags, trying the entire time not to think about the stares he was certainly getting from passers-by. He returned inside and was greeted by an expectant Harry, holding a large square of clear tarpaulin and a roll of duct tape. He handed them to Eggsy and pointed to the missing window. Eggsy failed to suppress an exasperated sigh and grumbled to himself as he made his way back outside.

Harry was surprisingly patient, Eggsy noted, for someone who looked like such an entitled prat. Not once had he insulted or talked down to Eggsy, which would have been well within his rights considering how they had become acquainted. He even brought out a cup of tea and a chocolate digestive for Eggsy while he was working with the tarp. He wanted to refuse, but his stomach protested, having long since exhausted the energy from his meagre breakfast. He spent the entire morning waiting for the other shoe to drop, but there came no catch, no twist, just a tray of crustless chicken sandwiches at lunchtime. Eggsy decided it wsa time to be proactive.

“Why’re you doing this, Mr. Hart?” He demanded.

“Harry,” insisted his employer.

“Fine. Why didn’t you ask the police to lay charges, Harry? Why’d you even want me in your shop?” Harry seemed thoughtful for a moment.

“Because I think you have potential.” He said, finally. Eggsy scoffed,

“You don’t even know me.” He replied, sullenly. Harry finished his sandwich and took a sip of tea before answering.

“A little gratitude would be nice.” He began, “Everyone has potential, Eggsy. I can’t see how yours would be anything but wasted in prison.” He grinned wryly and adjusted a lock nut-brown hair from where it had fallen onto his forehead, “However, if you like, there’s still time to go the traditional route.” Eggsy, at a loss for words once again, took another sandwich from the tray and stuffed it into his mouth.

As he whiled away his afternoon sweeping and dusting the same three spots around the shop floor, Eggsy wondered if this was perhaps some kind of experiment in criminal justice. He would certainly be less inclined to return to a life of petty crime and mischief if the consequences would continue to be this mind-numbingly dull. It was a slow day, to no one’s surprise. The few customers who did come in seemed amazed Kingsman was even open. Harry made polite small talk with his clientele as they completed their transactions, but would fall silent after they left, the only remaining sound the sharp, ugly smacking of raindrops against the tarp. Closing time could hardly come soon enough. Harry locked the till and stowed away the expensive cufflinks and tie clips while Eggsy ensured the workroom was tidy and organized. They met up again on the shop floor and Harry shook Eggsy’s hand.

“Thank you, Eggsy, and goodnight,” he said, “same time tomorrow.” Eggsy nodded, offering a brief, tight smile as a reply before making for the door.

———

He was bone tired by the time he got home, and was immensely relieved to find that Dean wasn’t in the flat. His mother was sat on the sofa, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips, bouncing the baby on her knee. Eggsy could tell from the glassy look in her eyes, however, that the motion was less for his sister’s benefit and more as an expenditure of nervous energy.

“You alright?” He asked, sitting down beside her and taking Daisy into his arms. She turned to him, face pale apart from the red wheal blooming on her left cheek.

“You shouldn’t be here, sweetheart.” She whispered, gravely. Trembling, she retrieved a lighter from the side table and tried vainly to light her cigarette. Eggsy ground his teeth, exhaustion gradually turning to simmering anger.

“Where is he?” Eggsy’s voice was soft, but there was a ferocity to his tone. Tears began to stream down Michelle’s cheeks.

“Darling, don’t,” she pleaded, “please, just give him some time! He’ll come back round.” Eggsy shook his head, handing Daisy back to his mother and rising to his feet,

“I’ve had it.” He said, tone barely restrained, “I’ve had enough.” He threw his jacket back on, ignoring his mother’s continued attempts to reason with him. This wasn’t the first time Dean had hit Michelle, but his quarrel was with Eggsy, and he was determined to settle it, whatever that meant.

His first stop was the Black Prince, Dean’s most frequent haunt, but when Eggsy burst through the front doors he saw only a smattering of the pub’s regular patrons, along with a quartet of his stepfather’s flunkies in a corner snug. Eggsy’s dramatic entrance caught their attention. The four turned their heads and got to their feet almost instantaneously. A tense quiet swept over the room as they crossed the floor. Their leader: a gaunt, gangly man Dean had nicknamed Rottweiler, cracked a sickly smile and called out.

“Eggsy, mate, we’ve been looking for you all day. Been wanting a chat.” Eggsy puffed out his chest and planted his feet where he stood, then turned on his heel and bolted for the door. The others cried out and took off after him.

Eggsy had put a reasonable bit of distance between himself and his pursuers, but an unlucky turn landed him at the back of a dead-end alley. Dean’s boys appeared at the mouth of the passageway, a touch out of breath and all the angrier for it. They came down on him all at once, two grabbing him by the arms. Rottweiler sucker-punched him in the gut. Eggsy jerked forward and wheezed, tasting bile before a hard left to the nose had him seeing stars. Blood trickled warm and thick down the back of his throat. He tried to call out for help, but another blow to the ribs silenced him. They dropped him to the ground, taking it in turns to kick him in the face, abdomen and back. Rottweiler pulled a gleaming knife from his jacket pocket and it was all Eggsy could do to close his eyes and wait to be gutted like a fish. He thought of his family, and how sorry he was that it was going to end this way.

“Excuse me,” a familiar voice lilted down the alley. Eggsy’s attackers turned, angrily. The new arrival continued, “I think you boys ought to know that I’ve just phoned the police, and I daresay now would be a good time for you to vacate the area.”

“Fuck off grandad.” Spat one of the gang, a curly, stout man Eggsy had dubbed Poodle, “this ain’t got nothing to do with you.” Eggsy craned to see the person foolish enough to put themself in the middle of such a hopeless scene. His swollen eyes must be deceiving him, because he thought he saw Harry Hart standing in the mouth of the alley, leaning casually on an umbrella.

“Of course,” Harry went on, unperturbed, “I don’t know what your beef with Eggsy is, but I wonder if you would consider leaving him be for the moment.” The boys had heard enough. Rott nodded to the other stooges, a sharp grin splitting his face, and they advanced menacingly on Harry. He cracked his knuckles,

“I’m gonna enjoy taking you apart, mate.” He said. Harry put his glasses in his breast pocket and, in a single motion, clobbered him to the ground with his umbrella. Rott went down with very little fuss. The others froze in shock for a split second before diving on Harry like hawks. He deftly dodged several blows before retrieving a stun gun from his trouser pocket and incapacitating another assailant with 50,000 volts. The sound of approaching sirens prevented the brawl from escalating any further, the gang opting instead to pick themselves up as best as they could and scatter in all directions. Harry knelt down next to Eggsy,

“Can you stand?” He asked. Eggsy nodded, then realized he wasn’t actually certain that was true. With Harry’s help, he managed to get to his feet and limp into the street, where he was loaded into the front seat of a car. Harry buckled him in and jogged around to climb in on the driver’s side. Eggsy shut his eyes against the pain soaking through every part of his body as Harry started the engine. He hoped that when he opened them, he would find himself back in his flat, the last 48 hours having been little more than some horrible, surreal delusion.


	4. Chapter 4

Wherever Harry had taken him, it wasn’t a long drive. Eggsy’s eyes had been closed for the duration, but when he opened them he could immediately tell they were not in his neighbourhood. He could also tell they weren’t at the hospital, which was a little diquieting. Harry was out of the car before Eggsy could ask him about their whereabouts, making his way round to Eggsy’s side to help him out of his seat. Harry led him to the end of a cul-de-sac lined with neat row houses, not extravagant, but certainly expensive.

“Where are we?” He demanded, groggily as Harry led him across the threshold of one of the homes. Blood dripped from his mouth as he spoke, and he brought up his hand to catch it before any drops fell on the ornate Persian rug spanning the foyer.

“My house,” Harry supplied, unhelpfully. He steered Eggsy into a small powder room and sat him on the closed lid of the toilet. He returned to the hall, shutting the door behind him and leaving Eggsy to wait. Eggsy took a moment to look around, startled when he caught sight of a taxidermy terrier in the mirror, lounging on a small wooden ledge directly over where he sat. Harry chose that moment to return, first aid kit in hand. He laid it on the edge of the sink and retrieved his tools: a bag of cotton swabs, bandages, scissors, but it was the curved needle and spool of suturing thread that made Eggsy balk.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” He asked. Harry cast him a sidelong glance,

“Been a bit of time since Bart’s,” he said, “but I still know my way around a needle and thread. We’re getting ahead of ourselves, however. Let me have a look at you first.” Harry took a damp cloth and gently wiped the dried blood from Eggsy’s face, then instructed him to take off his shirt. He looked closely at the bruises already darkening under the young man’s skin and tutted.

“My word,” he declared, “ they did quite the number on you, didn’t they?” Eggsy scoffed, darkly.

“Hardly. You ought to see what my stepdad can accomplish after a bottle or two.” He wasn’t sure why he said it, and he instantly regretted that he had. To his relief, Harry ignored him, focusing instead on surveying the depth of his facial lacerations.

“Fortunately, it looks like we’ll be able to forego the stitches.” He said after a moment. He applied a few butterfly bandages and wrapped Eggsy’s torso with a tensor. Their faces were mere inches apart, so close that Eggsy could smell the toothpaste on Harry’s breath. Eggsy found himself struggling to figure out where to look. The silence stretched between them, Harry concentrating on his task, Eggsy too uncomfortable to think of anything to say. He wasn’t used to quiet. It was never quiet on the estate. Quiet was generally a sign of trouble, but there was none of that tension in Harry’s silence. It was safe, if not comfortable. Harry finished his work, giving a satisfied nod and turning away to wash his hands. Eggsy let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding.

“Thanks,” he said, sincerely, when Harry turned back to face him.

“Of course.” Harry replied, graciously. He paused, mouth open to speak, face pensive. He made up his mind and continued, “Do you…have somewhere you can go tonight?” Eggsy cleared his throat and stood up, brusquely.

“Sure,” he said, “I mean, I can find somewhere.” Harry held up a hand,

“What I mean,” he clarified, “is that you would be welcome to spend the night here. I have a spare bedroom.”

“Okay,” Eggsy replied, uncertainly. Harry gave a curt nod,

“I’ll get you something cold for that eye.” He was out the door without another word. Eggsy shook his head with a sigh, trying to wrap his head around what an improbable shambles his life was becoming.

Harry’s spare room looked like a suite in a posh hotel, not that Eggsy knew from experience. It was spotless, every crease pressed out of the pristine white linens adorning the bed, and not a speck of dust on any of the varnished cherry wood of the surrounding furniture. There was even a set of face cloths and towels, complete with a bar of soap sitting on the vanity next to the bathroom door. Harry led him inside, handing him a pair of soft, light blue pyjamas and a toothbrush.

“Let me know if there’s anything else you need,” he offered, “or if your dressings need attention.” He shut the door quietly behind him. Eggsy strode to the centre of the room and sat down experimentally on the bed, letting out a gasp as he sank into the plush mattress. He lay back and stretched out, feeling the downy bounce of the duvet beneath his palms. Eggsy had never understood about thread counts, but he guessed these were in the trillions. He got up again and began the long, painful process of changing out of his clothes, stained with blood and street grime. He considered taking a shower, but decided it could wait until morning. Right now, he was exhausted. His ribs ached as he climbed beneath the covers, but he soon began to drift off nevertheless. He wasn’t sure he would ever be able to return to his old, sagging cot again. He inhaled as deeply as his aching ribs would let him, taking in the bright, fresh scent of detergent and the underlying musk of what must be Harry’s cologne, worn into the fabric from years of use. He fell asleep surrounded by the unfamiliar, yet somehow at ease.

———

A brief moment of panic seized Eggsy when he opened his eyes the next morning and was not in his own room. He tried quickly to sit up and immediately regretted it. The pain shooting up his sides did at least remind him of where he was and the events leadning up to his arrival. Distantly, he could hear the sounds of a kitchen at work, rousing his stomach with a vicious growl. He showered, revelling in the ample hot water, then dressed and made his way downstairs. Harry stood at the stove, looking intently into a sizzling pan. He wasn’t dressed, swaddled instead in a dark red dressing gown. His normally coiffed hair lay pushed back into a disordered wave atop his head. Eggsy would have thought him a different man were it not for the careful precision in his movements.

“Smells good,” Eggsy ventured, “what’s cooking?” Harry turned, offering a slow nod and brief smile.

“Ah, good morning,” he said, pouring a mug of tea and setting it to one side, “how do you feel?” Eggsy huffed out a little laugh,

“Like I’ve been hit by a fucking bus.” He replied, sliding gingerly into a seat at the high kitchen island. Harry joined him not long after, setting down a plate of eggs and bacon for each of them, along with the teas. They ate silently until the burning questions on the tip of Eggsy’s tongue came bubbling out of his mouth.

“What exactly was all that last night?” He demanded. Harry quirked an eyebrow.

“What exactly do you mean?” Eggsy gave him a weary look.

“You know what I mean.” He continued, “Why were you looking for me? Where’d you learn to fight like that? Why’d you bring me here?”

“There was an administrative matter I had been hoping to discuss with you, but as no one had supplied me with your mobile number, I thought it best to come find you myself. As for why I brought you here, it seemed clear to me that leaving you where I found you wasn’t an option.” Harry’s non-answer rankled, but Eggsy pressed on rather than argue.

“And the other thing? The part where it turns out you’re some kind of secret badass?” Harry bristled,

“I’m afraid there’s not much I’m able to tell you about that.” He remarked, “You may know that I was in the RAMC for a number of years, now discharged.” Eggsy smirked,

“Dishonourably?”

“Medically,” Harry supplied, a little coldly, “a bullet to the head, even one that doesn’t turn fatal, is often impetus for retirement.” Eggsy’s eyes went wide for a second and he nodded, impressed.

“My dad was in the army, y’know.” He offered after a moment. Harry hummed and nodded, acknowledging that Eggsy had spoken but keeping the door to further conversation tightly shut. They finished their breakfasts surrounded by Harry’s trademark silence.

———

He’d been offered the day off work, but Eggsy didn’t have much to go home to at the moment apart from his mother’s murderous husband, so he insisted on coming in. Harry lent him a set of clothes while his own soaked out their bloodstains in the bathtub, and drove him in. He spent the better part of the morning doing his best to avoid the searching, judgemental gazes of Kingsman’s customers while simultaneously avoiding any tasks that would require him to bend over. Business was still slow, though it had picked up considerably since yesterday. Presumably word had gotten around that the shop would be open during renovations. Still, when the doorbell chimed just after 11am, Eggsy turned with a start to look at the new arrivals. A pale-faced man in his early forties, accompanied by a sandy-haired girl who looked about Eggsy’s age glided through the door. The man made a beeline for the counter, while the girl started browsing the displays. She made eye contact with Eggsy as she perused the ties, taking in his battered, bandaged face with an intrigued smirk.

“Mr. Percival,” Harry greeted, pleasantly, coming around to shake the man’s hand, “good to see you again. Second fitting, yes?” Their guest nodded,

“I love what you’ve done with the place.” He replied, gesturing with his head toward the crash site, “Open concept. Very fashionable.” Harry’s smile tightened, but he made no retort, leading his client with a sweep of the hand toward the fitting rooms. Eggsy turned his attention back to the girl, who had moved on to scrutinizing the cufflinks.

“If you try to nick any of those, I got no problem taking you down.” Eggsy joked, mischievously. The girl laughed,

“Oh, you’ve got a black belt as well?” Eggsy shook his head and let out a low, impressed whistle. The girl extended a hand, “Haven’t seen you in here before. I’m Roxy.”

“Eggsy. I’m new.” He shook her hand and pointed toward the fitting room, “Is that your dad?”

“Uncle,” she corrected, “he gets all his suits made here. I’m hoping if I drop enough hints he’ll ask me if I’d like one, too.” Eggsy raised an eyebrow,

“What do you want that for?” He asked. Roxy grinned,

“No self-respecting lesbian should be without a bespoke suit in her wardrobe.” Eggsy let out a surprised bark of laughter, which Roxy echoed, warmly. Harry and Mr. Percival returned to the front and began hammering out the details of his next visit before once again shaking hands.

“We’re finished, Roxy,” Mr. Percival said, bidding a civil — if superior — goodbye to Harry and giving not a glance to Eggsy. Roxy turned and gave an apologetic shrug,

“See you around, Eggsy.” She followed her uncle out into the street, casting a little wave back through the glass of the door. Harry kept up his gracious smile until they were out of sight, at which point his face fell and he let out an impatient breath.

“What a prick.” He muttered. A laugh burst forth from Eggsy before he could tamp it down. Harry gave him a look, but offered no admonishment.


	5. Chapter 5

Eggsy’s phone hadn’t stopped going off for nearly an hour, but he didn’t dare check it. He’d silenced the ringer, but Harry had specifically asked him to switch it all the way off when he was out on the floor. He managed to get a glimpse when Harry stepped into a fitting room for a few minutes. There were a staggering number of messages from Ryan, explaining that things in the block had done anything but cool down overnight. Dean was apparently fuming, feeling apparently quite defensive after word got around that his boys had had the shit kicked out of them by “some posh twat”. Eggsy quickly typed out an acknowledgement, sent it, and pocketed his phone as Harry swung open the door. Harry rang up the customer, then followed the gentleman to the door and flipped what was left of the sign to its “closed” side.

“That’s lunch.” He said, turning to give his assistant a satisfied nod, thankfully oblivious to Eggsy’s unsettled mood. Eggsy made a beeline for the storage closet in the workroom, ringing his mum as soon as the door was shut behind him.

“I’m okay.” He said by way of a greeting. Michelle heaved a weary, frustrated, but deeply relieved sigh.

“I can’t take any more of this.” She pleaded, “It’s got to stop, Eggsy.”

“Still upset, is he?” Eggsy joked. His mum did not find it funny.

“I’ve hardly ever seen him like this. It’s like he’s out of his mind.” Eggsy could hear the terror in Michelle’s trembling voice.

“Has he hit you again?” He demanded. Michelle sobbed. Eggsy felt his jaw clench of its own accord. “Listen,” he said, “you can tell me what happened when I get home tonight.”

“Eggsy, don’t!” Michelle cried.

“I love you, mum. I’ll see you later.” He hung up instead of giving his mother another chance to respond. He spent a long time just standing in the closet, furious and afraid, eyes stinging with angry tears. He took a long, deep breath and wiped them on the back of his hand, shutting off the light and stepping out into the light. Harry was there, replacing a bolt of fabric on the wall, conspicuously avoiding eye contact. Eggsy froze.

“How much of that did you hear?” Harry looked up, feigning nonchalance.

“Pardon?” He lied. Eggsy rolled his eyes. Harry continued, stiltedly, “There are sandwiches upstairs, if you would like.” He hurried from the room almost as soon as the words had left his mouth.

———

Perhaps in an effort to keep Eggsy’s mind off his predicament, Harry spent the afternoon showing his hired hand around the tools of his trade. Eggsy sat on a stool as Harry hunched over the work table, brown paper crinkling beneath his hands and scattered with chalk pencils. Mr. Percival’s jacket was laid out in front of them, still unfinished, next to a pattern of four long, tapered rectangles.

“At this point in the process, everything should be cut on the roomy side.” He explained, running his shears along the design’s dark outlines. “This gives a tailor not only a wide margin of error, but also provides a comfortable degree of leeway with regard to artistic considerations such as seam and pleat.” Eggsy nodded, watching Harry’s scissors glide through the paper in long, smooth strokes.

“Couldn’t you reuse the pattern for one leg to make the other?” He asked, baffled that someone as fastidious and experienced as his employer would fail to notice something so wasteful. Harry smiled, a hint of what Eggsy thought might be pride suggesting itself at the corner of his mouth.

“Well-observed,” he said, “normally, the answer would be yes. However, Mr. Percival’s left leg is nearly a quarter of an inch longer than his right, forcing me to make separate templates. His ilk will truly find any excuse to make my job more difficult.” Eggsy chuckled, incredulously.

“ _His_ ilk? Harry, are one of those self-loathing posh types?” Harry gazed at Eggsy, serious and earnest.

“I have very little patience for pretention,” he explained, “the circumstances of one’s birth do not, in my opinion, make any guarantees on a person’s quality of character.” Eggsy nodded and Harry returned to the paper. Eggsy couldn’t help but stare at him as he worked, moving deftly and precisely, transferring the pattern from paper to cloth, marking with absolute certainty in chalk what would soon be pleats and flies. It was no surprise that Harry had been a military man. He made no extraneous motion, every action the picture of certainty and efficiency. Eggsy’s father, from what he could remember of him, had exhibited that same discipline and consideration.

“Eggsy, did you hear what I said?” Harry’s voice snapped Eggsy back into focus.

“Not really.” He admitted. Harry began again,

“I’d like you to go to the cupboard and retrieve the clapper. It’s a block of wood, roughly in the shape of an iron.” Eggsy jumped to his feet.

“Right.” He fled, hoping his embarrassment didn’t show too plainly.

Eggsy had begun to want to prove himself to Harry. He’d been offered a second chance, and he was determined to earn it. In the last three days, Harry had gone from perfect stranger to personal saviour, and Eggsy did feel guilty about everything he’d put the man through. The enormity of his debt was beginning to weigh on him, and he was certain that no amount of his garnished wage would be able to account for everything. He tried to put these thoughts aside as he and Harry closed up the shop, but they continued to swirl around in his mind for the duration of his commute back home. Dolefully, he climbed the rain-slick concrete steps of the block and shouldered open the door to their flat. He froze in the doorway when he spied Dean splayed out on the sofa, one arm around Michelle. They looked relatively at ease, but Eggsy still wished he could pass through unacknowledged.

“Oi, Eggsy!” Dean called at him. Eggsy’s heart raced as his body readied itself for a confrontation. Dean laughed, “You look like you’ve shit yourself, mate, what the hell’s the matter with you?” Eggsy ground his teeth and stayed silent, traversing the open living space at a fast clip on his way to his bedroom. Dean cackled again,

“Poor lad must think I’m still angry about that piece of shit car! Insurance bought me a new model. You did me a fucking favour!” Eggsy shut and locked the door to his room before the conversation could progress any further. He knew Dean was lying. The man loved that car more than anything, wife and daughter included. This was just him taking the time to figure out his next move, lulling Michelle into a false sense of security and expecting Eggsy to play along. Maybe Eggsy would be safe tonight, but every second he stayed in the same flat as Dean he pushed his luck. He shoved his face into his pillow, but was too exhausted to scream. His stomach growled and he wished he’d had the forethought to bring a snack in with him. Harry’s sandwich spread had been delicious at lunchtime, but it felt like ages ago. He got up to change, realizing as he undid his belt that he was still in Harry’s clothes. He folded them up and laid them on his desk, quite out of character for someone who kept most of his clothes — clean and dirty alike — piled upon a chair in the corner of the room, and found himself relishing his newfound excuse to return to Harry’s place and pick up his things. Maybe he would get to share another meal at Harry’s cozy kitchen island. He lay back down on his narrow, lumpy mattress, berating himself for having been so spoiled after just one night under covers that didn’t reek of mothballs. As so many other nights, Eggsy kept one ear open to the goings on outside his door. He heard the front door open and shut, a parade of familiar but unwelcome voices coming and going into the small hours. He began to doze off around one in the morning, but was jarred awake by the rattling of his doorknob his stepfather’s dark, drunken laugh.

“You all tucked in, Eggsy,” Dean slurred, “all comfy and cozy?” Eggsy didn’t reply. It was no use trying to engage with him when all Dean wanted was a soliloquy. “Hope you can sleep with one eye open, mate.” Eggsy tensed, but Dean moved on, allowing him to fall into a much-needed, if fitful slumber.

———

Work was a welcome respite for Eggsy over the days that followed. He’d taken to sleeping round his friends’ places, but their home situations weren’t much less chaotic than his own. At least he didn’t have to be worried about getting knifed in his sleep by Jamal’s mum. She also fed him extremely well, sending him off in the mornings with leftover jollof rice and spicy grilled chicken enough to share with his employer. Harry and Eggsy had begun to fall into a comfortable working routine. Slowly, he was given more responsibilities around the shop, graduating from sweeping and dusting to inventory and displays. Occasionally, during slow hours, Harry would even tutor him in the ways of customer service.

“Those who enter this shop will believe themselves to be of a higher calibre of man than you,” Harry explained as he sewed a dart into a dark grey sharkskin jacket, “and while I do not encourage disrespect toward one’s clientele, I think that a healthy dose of humility — subtly administered, of course — can be a vital tonic.”

“How d’you do that, then?” Eggsy asked, ever amused by Harry’s roundabout manner. The tailor gave a knowing smile.

“Patience is a virtue many of these men have neglected.” He explained, “Therefore, I think it reasonable to, on very rare occasions, test the limits of their poise. Mr. King, for example, when he comes to retrieve this order next Tuesday, will have to wait roughly seven minutes while I ‘search’ for it in the back room, so swamped with important commissions that I simply couldn’t be expected to remember which one belongs to him.” Eggsy did nothing to hide the incredulous grin plainly displayed on his face.

“And that’s what rich people do for fun, is it?” Harry laughed, fondly, stirring in Eggsy a sense of pride which surprised him. He enjoyed the way Harry’s stoic features suddenly sprang to life with mirth, perhaps more than was strictly professional. He wondered if he was becoming too invested in what was almost certainly a purely business relationship for the other party, perhaps tempered with pity or some patronising sense of charity. Boundaries, he thought. He had to start putting some distance between them before Harry either met some gruesome fate or grew tired of him like everyone else.

———

The carpenters came and went, straightening and staining the window frame just in time for the glaziers to bring in the fresh pane. Eggsy took down the tarp and held it proudly aloft for Harry to see as the van pulled up. He scrunched the plastic up under his arm and brought it into the storeroom, then returned to the front to watch them at work.

“I have something for you,” Harry remembered suddenly as the workmen finished their installation. Eggsy regarded his employer quizzically as he reached into a pocket and retrieved a small, brassy medallion on a chain. He handed it to Eggsy, who turned it over in his fingers. One one side was the embossed figure of a saint Eggsy didn’t recognize, surrounded by some Latin text.

“What’s this?” He asked, running his thumb over the portrait.

“Saint Homobonus,” Harry replied. Eggsy snickered,

“Saint what?” Harry fixed him with his now famous long-suffering quirk of the brow.

“Omobono, if you prefer,” he continued, “patron saint of tailors.” He began to recite, “I ask for guidance in my work, so that I may prosper by choosing virtue over avarice.” A look of nostalgia washed over him as the words flowed from some buried place.

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for a Catholic.” Eggsy remarked. Harry shrugged,

“Lapsed. Though I’ve remained enamoured of many of its trappings, the Church and I have always disagreed on a few crucial points.” Eggsy guessed there was more to that story, but he also knew that Harry was the type to withdraw when pressed, and their rapport had become quite precious to him. The workers came inside and Harry turned his attention to their invoice. Eggsy took a moment to admire the window, already painted with the store’s name and hours. The entire shop looked different with the addition of unobstructed sunlight, and Eggsy once again found himself brimming with pride. He and Harry didn’t have much down time that afternoon, barely saying two words to one another until closing time, but Eggsy felt the weight of the sacramental around his neck keeping him company.

———

Eggsy awoke at precisely 4:27am the next morning, chest tight with panic, sofa cushions beneath him damp with sweat. He had hoped he was done with the nightmares, but his optimism had very clearly been unfounded. They had started after his father died, the grief he couldn’t articulate at such a young age manifesting in the form of gruesome dreams. They all took roughly the same form: Eggsy would open the door of his flat and find someone important to him, usually his mum, lying in a pool of blood, gasping for his help with their last breath. Every time he was powerless to do anything, and every time they died, terrified, in his arms. He used to wake up crying, sometimes he would even be sick, but it had been years. He buried his head in his hands, breathing deeply until he had scoured the image of Harry’s broken, bloodstained glasses from his mind.


	6. Chapter 6

As time went on, Eggsy found himself forced to reckon with the fact that he might have some feelings for Harry. Maybe the attention of a kind, patient and, if he was honest, extremely handsome older man was doing a number on his paternal complex, but he quickly decided it didn’t have to be a problem. If Eggsy’s upbringing had taught him one thing, it was that the best way to deal with uncomfortable emotions was to bury them deep and ignore them until they withered. He feigned ignorance when asked about the dark circles under his eyes and kept his head down at work, avoiding Harry’s eyes as he counted sleeve garters and restocked rows of grey argyle socks. He could not, however, ignore the medal that still sat heavy on his chest, burning a hole through him. If Harry noticed his distress, he made no mention, for which Eggsy was interminably grateful.

———

Eggsy’s eyes snapped toward the door as it chimed one bright Friday. He was pleasantly surprised to see Roxy burst excitedly into the shop, followed at a more sedate pace by her uncle. She smiled at Eggsy and gave him a wave as Mr. Percival spoke to Harry at the counter.

“Morning, Eggsy.” She greeted, cheerfully. Eggsy smiled back.

“What’re you so excited about?” He asked.

“I’m getting fitted today.” She said.

“Finally convinced him, huh?” Roxy shook her head,

“Didn’t have to.” She explained, “He and my father are quarrelling again, so my uncle’s trying to give him a heart attack. He thinks that my showing up to our upcoming gala in a new tux with my girlfriend on my arm will just about do the trick.” Eggsy laughed, immeasurably glad to see have someone there to take his mind off his own tumultuous inner monologue. Harry insinuated himself between them.

“Ms. Morton,” he said, “your uncle tells me you’re interested in a suit.”

“That’s correct.” Harry nodded and swept his hand in the direction of the fitting rooms,

“Please follow me.” He said, leading her away. “Eggsy,” he added, “I would benefit from your assistance.” Eggsy leant his broom against the wall and followed, swiftly.

“Have you ever been measured for a suit before?” Harry asked, reaching his tape measure down from the high shelf as Eggsy shut the door behind them. Roxy shook her head.

“Only gowns,” she replied. Harry nodded, thoughtfully.

“This process tends to be a bit more, shall we say, personal. There are a few more dimensions I’ll need to ascertain.” Roxy’s eyebrows threatened to disappear into her hairline.

“Oh?” The amusement was plain in her voice.

“I’d be happy to demonstrate, if it would put you at ease.” Roxy leered deviously at Eggsy.

“Oh, would you? That’s very kind.”

“Eggsy, if you wouldn’t mind.” Harry said. Eggsy suddenly found himself being steered in front of the triptych mirror and manhandled into position. He hoped Roxy couldn’t see his face reddening as Harry ran the tape measure across his shoulders and down to his wrists, explaining the purpose of each measurement he took. Eggsy’s spine tingled, a sensation he adamantly refused to analyze, as Harry measured from the nape of his neck down to the small of his back.

“Please don’t hold your breath.” Harry said as he brought the tape around Eggsy’s abdomen, being careful around the young man’s ribs. Eggsy’s embarrassment reached a crescendo as Harry dropped low and began to take the dimensions of his legs. The outseam wasn’t so bad, but then a hand presented itself between his knees and spread his legs. Eggsy saw Roxy in the mirror, shoulders shaking, hand masking her mouth as she did everything in her power to keep her laughter quiet. Eggsy let out a squeak, which he tried to disguise with a cough as Harry’s hands made his way up the inside of his thigh. Roxy looked a little guilty the next time he looked at her, though not nearly guilty enough to satisfy him. Harry stood up again and Eggsy hastily excused himself as the tailor moved on to his actual client.

Roxy found Eggsy after her session, approaching meekly from across the shop.

“I’m really sorry about that.” She said, sincerely, “Had I known I wouldn’t have—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Eggsy interjected, “anyway, you’ve got it all wrong. That wasn’t, I mean…” realizing how unconvincing he sounded, Eggsy decided to simply let it drop. Roxy nodded, humouring him.

“On an absolutely and completely unrelated note,” she began, contritely, “what would you say to a pint after closing?”

She picked him up at half-six, waving through the window with a huge grin on her face.

“Come on,” she said, “I haven’t got all night!” Eggsy announced that he was leaving,

“Have a nice weekend!” Echoed Harry’s reply from the closet. Eggsy hopped down the front steps.

“Alright, where’re we going?” He asked, “Keeping in mind that I’m skint.” Roxy patted him on the shoulder and propelled him down the street,

“I think you’ll like this place,” she said, “and I hope you’ll like the company.”

———

When Roxy had asked him to come out with her, Eggsy had expected to be led to some overpriced hipster haunt filled with the sort of weak-chinned dullards Roxy’s father would have approved of as gala dates, so he was pleasantly surprised when he stepped through the door of a small but lively old pub. The air was filled with excited chatter and music, and a slightly faded rainbow flag hung above the bar. A dark-haired girl waved to them from a booth at the far end of the room, and Roxy dragged Eggsy over by his sleeve to meet her. She beamed as she introduced them.

“Eggsy,” she said, proudly, “this is my girlfriend, Amelia. Amelia, this is my new friend, Eggsy.” They shook hands before Amelia scooted across the bench to make room.

“Unusual name.” She remarked with curiosity.

“Unusual accent.” Eggsy quipped in return. Amelia laughed.

“I lived in Berlin for almost ten years.” She explained, “I guess I brought it back as a souvenir.” Roxy stood and announced she was getting the first round,

“What’s yours?” She asked Eggsy. He shrugged,

“Whatever’s cheap and drinkable.” Roxy rolled her eyes, affectionately and wove through the crowd toward the bar. Eggsy turned back to Amelia,

“So, what do you do?” She asked. Eggsy felt himself flush a little.

“I, uh, work in a tailor’s.” He said, uncertainly. Amelia’s face lit up,

“At Kingsman? Roxy’s obsessed with that place! Is that how you know each other?” Eggsy nodded, relieved. When Roxy had informed him it wouldn’t be just the two of them tonight, he had been anxious. He should have intuited that her taste in partners would be as unpretentious as her taste in friends. Amelia asked him how long he’d been working for Harry, and Eggsy ended up telling her the whole story. She laughed, only a little scandalized. Roxy returned, three glasses of golden lager balanced precariously in her hands. Eggsy stood and grabbed the nearest one to him,

“Allow me.” He said. She sat down hard, leaning into the crook of Amelia’s arm.

“What were you two giggling about, then?” She asked.

“You didn’t tell me your friend had such a colourful history.” Amelia replied, fondly. Roxy raised her glass,

“What shall we drink to?” She asked.

“World peace?” Amelia teased.

“To drinking!” Eggsy cried. The girls laughed and clinked glasses, each then taking a heroic mouthful.

———

Hours and drinks passed with astonishing speed. The after work crowd had thinned, giving way to the more serious Friday-nighters. Amelia had long since found the middle distance, swaying clumsily to the music. Eggsy could relate. He struggled to focus his eyes on Roxy’s face when she tapped him on the shoulder.

“Eggsy,” she slurred.

“What?” Roxy leaned in, conspiratorially, catching herself as she jerked forward.

“Oof, I told myself I wasn’t going to get this sloshed.” She muttered. To Eggsy, she continued, “How long have you had this thing for Harry?” Eggsy stared at her, disapprovingly,

“What d’you mean?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. Roxy reached out her hand and grabbed ahold of his medal.

“He gave you this, didn’t he?” She asked, “You’ve been fiddling with it all night.” Eggsy hadn’t noticed. He grabbed it back and tucked it away, face red. Roxy was still staring at him, expectantly when he looked back up. He leaned his face cheerlessly on his cheek.

“Jesus,” he groaned, “is it that fucking obvious?”

“From the first time I laid eyes on the pair of you.” Roxy sighed. Eggsy slumped in his seat.

“I only figured it out myself a couple days ago!” Roxy patted him reassuringly on the arm,

“Hey, hey,” she soothed, “I mean, it’s not a big deal. I get it!” She glanced at Amelia, “Well, in theory.” She amended. Eggsy breathed a half-hearted chuckle out his nose and forced a smile.

“I’m way too pissed to be having this conversation,” he said, “I should probably go.” He stood up and dug in his pocket, laying a few notes down on the table to square things up. Roxy grabbed at his jacket,

“Eggsy, please,” she insisted, “I didn’t mean anything by it, I’m sorry!” Eggsy waved her away, good-naturedly, nearly falling over as he checked himself for his phone and keys.

“I’m not mad, Rox,” he said, “it really is getting late, and if I don’t want to spend the night in a gutter I’ve got a bus to catch. Let’s do this again, though. I mean it.” Roxy, satisfied, let him go with a contrite smile. Eggsy waved goodbye to the still-dazed Amelia and shuffled into the cool night air. He paused for a moment, gathering his faculties against the bricks of the pub, and began his slow, unsteady journey homeward.

———

Eggsy was staying at Ryan’s flat, a storey up from his place, but a commotion caught his ear from the stairwell as he passed his floor. There was a baby crying. Angry and frightened voices echoed off the concrete, followed by a crash of shattering glass. Eggsy sprinted toward his open door, heart pounding, guts turned to lead with terror. His mother cowered on the floor in front of the sofa, Dean looming over her, red-faced and furious. Michelle had the neck of a broken liquor bottle in a white-knuckled grip, tears and smudged makeup streaming down her face. Dean was bleeding steadily from a cut on his hand.

“You stupid fucking cow!” He bellowed. He jerked his injured hand toward her, splattering her face with blood. “Look what you’ve fucking gone and done!” Michelle’s eyes met those of her son and she screamed.

“Eggsy, get out of here!” Dean turned and lunged at him, screaming a war cry into his stepson’s face. Eggsy managed to dodge, adrenaline sobering him up more-or-less instantly. Even so, he could feel the breeze from Dean’s fist whistle past his cheek. Panicking, he grabbed the first thing in arm’s reach, a ceramic ashtray from the side table, and smashed it atop Dean’s head. The other man staggered backward, dazed, and Eggsy rushed past him. He took his mother by the shoulders and spoke urgently to her.

“Take the baby and get out of here right now.” He said, “Next door or to Nan’s or wherever, doesn’t matter, just go!” Michelle, shaking, got to her feet and grabbed a wailing Daisy from her crib. Dean’s huge, clubbed fingers grabbed Eggsy by the scruff and hauled him to his feet.

“You little shit!” He growled. Michelle scrambled out the door with Daisy in her arms as Dean’s hand closed around Eggsy’s throat. With his other hand, he punched Eggsy hard in his still-tender ribs, then slammed him down onto the floor on his back. Dean put a boot to Eggsy’s throat, staring down at him like he was a cockroach. Eggsy grappled at his stepfather’s leg, but oxygen deprivation had was already clouding his vision and weighted his limbs.

“I’ve had it with you, boy,” Dean pressed his boot harder and Eggsy let out a ragged gasp. “but you ain’t worth the effort it’d take to kill you.” Dean stepped off Eggsy’s neck. The sudden rush of air hit his lungs like icy water and a blow to the head sent him rolling onto his side. He coughed and wheezed on the ground as Dean stepped over him. He grabbed a bottle from the top of the fridge and squatted down to eye-level. “Now get the fuck out of here before I change my bloody mind.” He whispered, harshly. He stood up and spat onto Eggsy’s face, then retreated to the bedroom. Eggsy slowly picked himself up and limped into the night.

———

He worried it might turn into a cliché, his turning up bruised and bloody at Harry’s place, but he couldn’t stay on the estate tonight and put Ryan and his dad in the crossfire. Nobody would think to come looking for him here. He tried calling his mum a couple of times, but she wasn’t picking up. He hoped she was safe. He rang the doorbell about a dozen times, praying that Harry was a light sleeper. The foyer light came on and Harry opened the door a moment later. He was in his pyjamas, bleary eyes squinting without his glasses, an expression of impatient bewilderment on his face.

“Eggsy?” He asked, baffled. He peered at the hall clock, “Goodness, do you have any idea what time it is?”

“I’m sorry.” Eggsy replied, “I didn’t have nowhere else to go.” Harry took in his bedraggled state and sighed, running a hand down his sleep-addled face. He stood aside and beckoned Eggsy in.

“Of course,” he said, gently, “I’ll put the kettle on.”


	7. Chapter 7

Harry hadn’t asked any questions apart from whether Eggsy wanted milk and sugar. They sat in silence, Eggsy shivering from exhaustion, leaning on the arm of the sofa. Harry brought in two mugs of tea and set them on the side table, within reach but out of the way.

“If you’d care for something stronger…” he began, but Eggsy shook his head, already courting a hangover and not eager to add fuel to that fire. Harry took a seat in a tall wingback armchair and took a sip from his cup. He didn’t seem impatient, nor did it seem like he felt entitled to an explanation. Eggsy disagreed, but didn’t know where to begin.

“You don’t have to stay up with me.” He offered, apologetically, “I know it’s late.”

“I’m happy to stay,” Harry replied, “if you’d like the company.” Eggsy thanked him with a nod, rubbing his sore neck absentmindedly. Harry stood suddenly from his chair and glided over to join Eggsy on the sofa. “Allow me.” He said, reaching for Eggsy’s hand and gently pushing it aside. With the thumb of his right hand, he lifted Eggsy’s chin to get a better look at the four angry red stripes Dean had left behind. Eggsy’s breath hitched and he bit his lip, straining to avoid eye contact. “Does it hurt much?” Harry asked, concerned. Eggsy shook his head,

“No,” he stammered, “it’s fine.” Harry made to pull away, but Eggsy’s hand, seeming to act on its own, rose and clutched the man’s wrist. He turned his head round to meet their eyes. Harry looked as startled as Eggsy felt about his inexplicable boldness. Neither man moved for a long time, both making a thousand calculations, until Eggsy’s patience gave out. He shifted forward. Harry’s hand cupped his cheek. Had he not long since sobered up, Eggsy would have blamed the alcohol, but it was his own fault when he leaned in, let his eyes fall shut and pressed his lips to Harry’s. It was a simple thing, but heavy with intent. He allowed himself to linger for a few seconds in case this was his only chance, parting his lips just slightly and inhaling Harry’s scent: a mature, complex musk that seemed to fill Eggsy’s bloodstream. Pulling away, he cast his eyes down to the upholstery, stealing a glance at the other man’s face only when the silence began to stretch. Taking in Harry’s inscrutable expression, he thought of apologizing. Not for the kiss, he would never be sorry for that, but for the line he had crossed, and for the possibility of having pushed Harry away.

“Why did you do that?” Harry asked. There was nothing accusatory in his tone, but an almost clinical curiosity. Eggsy noted that the hand had not been withdrawn from his cheek. He forced a casual shrug,

“I wanted to.” He replied, hoping the diffidence in his voice would come across as playful rather than bratty, “I’ve been wanting to for a long time, actually.” Harry let out a long breath, Eggsy could see the gears turning in his skull, all the while his thumb swept across Eggsy’s jaw.

“I think we ought to get some sleep.” He said, conclusively, “A number of important points have been raised tonight, all of which bear discussing, but none of which can’t wait until morning.” Eggsy sighed. It wasn’t the response he’d hoped for, but having been braced for the worst, he was relieved. He had yet to be thrown into the night and would take what victories he could. He allowed himself to be led upstairs to the spare bedroom, graciously accepting the pyjamas and guest towels as last time, but as he turned to bid Harry goodnight, he was met with a kiss. He leaned in, praying the tiny whine which escaped him when they separated went undetected.

“Sleep well, Eggsy.” Harry said, turning on his heel down the hall. Eggsy replied breathlessly to the empty room, crawling into bed in a daze.

———

He called his mum first thing when he woke up. His knee bounced anxiously as one ring turned to two and to three. Michelle picked up on the fifth ring, at which point Eggsy was so giddy with relief he could hardly suppress a laugh.

“What’s the matter with you?” Michelle demanded.

“Nothing,” he replied, taking a deep, centring breath, “I’m fine. Are you two alright? You safe?”

“Yeah,” she said, “we’re at Barbara’s.” Eggsy silently thanked every god he could think of. Barbara was an old friend of Michelle’s in Dagenham, giving her a substantial buffer. “Where are you?” Eggsy considered his answer for a moment before settling on,

“A friend’s. Nowhere near the flat.”

“I’m glad.” Michelle replied. “Thank you, Eggsy,” she continued, “and I want you to know…I’ve decided. That’s it, last straw. He’s out of our lives forever, starting right now. I really mean it this time.” Eggsy believed her. It wouldn’t be that simple, of course, especially with a baby involved, but last night had seemed a genuine wake-up call.

“I love you.” He told her, chest tight, “I’ll come see you soon.” Michelle replied the same and they each hung up. Eggsy ran a hand down his face, wiping a few nascent tears from the corners of his eyes, and slowly readied himself to head downstairs.

He slunk into the kitchen, stomach already in knots at the thought of the conversation he knew was coming. Harry was steeping two cups of tea at the dining room table.

“Good morning.” He said, a little stilted, placing one of the cups at place directly opposite him. Eggsy sat down, drumming his fingers nervously as he searched for the right opening line.

“So…” he began, stretching the word out while the rest of his vocabulary seemed to fall out his ears.

“So,” Harry repeated, “you mentioned that last night was some time coming.” Eggsy nodded,

“Yeah.” Harry sighed, his voice taking on the sad, gentle tenor of a doctor delivering bad news.

“I don’t think it would be wise for the two of us to become…involved.” He said. Eggsy clenched his jaw.

“Why not? He demanded, more harshly than he intended, “I’m not a child, Harry.”

“You’re twenty-two years old,” Harry pointed out, pinching the bridge of his nose, “but no, I suppose you’re not a child.”

“Then what?” Eggsy continued, “My family doesn’t have a fucking estate in the country so I’m not good enough to be anything but your little pet cockney?” Harry’s face went steely, his lips tight. He got up abruptly, making his way to an oak cabinet by the door. Searching in one of the drawers, he retrieved a leather-bound album and dropped it heavily in front of Eggsy.

“Look through that for a few pages,” he said, hurt and incensed, “and see if you can’t figure it out.” Eggsy rolled his eyes up at Harry, but the man didn’t budge, so eventually he obliged. It was pictures from Harry’s army days. Posed photos with his regiment, candids with other officers or patients. His enlightenment came four or five pages in, nearly stopping his heart. Sitting in a wheelchair, grinning with casts on both legs and Harry’s hand on his shoulder, was Eggsy’s father. Eggsy looked back up at Harry, who gave a solemn nod.

“He saved my life,” he explained, “pushed me out of the way of a grenade explosion. Not long after that photo was taken, he took a turn for the worse. My team and I…” Harry took a deep breath, “I missed something, a piece of shrapnel, when I was operating. He died from my mistake.” Eggsy furrowed his brow. He studied the picture for a long time. It had been a long time since he’d seen his father’s face. Dean had made his mum get rid of all the photos of him when they’d gotten together. Eventually, he looked back up at Harry.

“So, this whole thing,” he gestured between them, “keeping me out of prison, giving me the job, it’s all been some kind of weird karma thing?”

“He spoke of you,” Harry said, “when he was in my care. You and your mother. In fact, he spoke of little else. When I learned it was you who ran into my shop…” spiralling, Harry paused and centred himself again. “I care for you, Eggsy, I do, but I couldn’t face myself if I ever brought you pain. I’ve done enough of that for a lifetime.” Eggsy, eyes stinging, blinked rapidly and tried to steady his quivering lip.

“Fuck, Harry.” he whispered. He sat silent for a moment, head in his hands. “Is it fucked up that I haven’t changed my mind?” Harry balked. Eggsy laughed, tears returning to the brim of his eyes. “You saved my life, Harry,” he went on, “more than once. Maybe that evens things up, maybe it doesn’t, but I just…don’t care. I want to be with you.”

“You do seem to be forgetting the fact that I’m your employer.” Harry chided. Eggsy gave a lascivious smirk,

“Oh, I didn’t forget.” He winked. Harry sighed,

“I’ll need some time to think this over,” he said, “I’m not convinced this can end any way but badly. I promise, I will consider it.” Eggsy gave a resolute nod.

“Fine, but I’m holding you to that.”

———

Having nowhere else to go, Eggsy was going to continue staying with Harry, exhausting as that would be. He spent the majority of that first weekend out and about, going down to Dagenham to see his mum and meeting up for coffee with Roxy. Seeing her helped. She had no time for posturing or evasion, and was extremely forthcoming with her opinions.

“Jesus,” she said after Eggsy told her of his recent, shocking revelations, “that’s a bit weird, isn’t it? Still, Harry’s a good guy. Didn’t think you were going to up and move in with him right away, though. I thought that was more how my lot operated.”

“You’re funny, Rox, you know that?” Eggsy gave a sarcastic roll of his eyes.

“Seriously, though,” she continued, “you’re telling me none of this bothers you?” Eggsy sighed,

“I don’t know,” he replied, “maybe it should. It just feels like all that stuff’s ancient history, you know?” Roxy snorted into the foam of her cappuccino,

“Is he that old?” Eggsy glared at her and she offered a giggly apology, taking a coquettish sip.

“Laugh riot, you are.” He looked down into his cup. The truth was, he had no idea how they were going to make it work, and it terrified him. The age, their bizarrely enmeshed history. Lines were being crossed in all directions, and Eggsy didn’t want to think about it. “He hasn’t even said what he wants. We’ll jump off that bloody bridge when we get to it!”

“At least you’ve got a positive outlook.” Roxy finished her drink, “I’ve got to run,” she announced, getting up from her chair. She opened her arms and Eggsy hugged her. “Take care of yourself.” She said, “Let me know if you need anything.” Eggsy thanked her, but insisted he’d be fine.

“Say hi to Amelia for me.” He said, effectively capping their conversation. They parted in opposite directions, and Eggsy allowed the churning uncertainty to bubble up inside him again.


	8. Chapter 8

Harry had iced over again come Monday. Eggsy felt it was at least partially his fault. He awoke at 7:30, just in time to see Harry speeding out the door without so much as a salutation. More than a little hurt, he at least took some solace in the plate of breakfast left for him on the island. Joylessly, he swallowed scrambled eggs and buttered toast. Rain beat against the window as Eggsy polished off the last of his tea, and he couldn’t help but feel a little bitter as he thought of Harry’s comfortable drive in comparison to his own dismal commute. He pledged not to let it get to him. If Harry wanted to play things cool, Eggsy would play along.

———

Formulating his strategy on the fly as he strode through Kingsman’s front door, Eggsy decided that he should be aggressive, asserting in every move he made how perfectly reasonable he found this entire scenario. In no way was he walking on eggshells, nor waiting on tenterhooks, his breath un-bated. His contentment would be so forceful that Harry would crack in no time. The man himself was already in the workroom, hunched over the table. Eggsy leaned over his shoulder at a comfortable distance, as he had done every day previous.

“Is that Roxy’s?” He asked. Eggsy had never seen Harry startle, if that was even the word for what came over his employer. For a split second, Harry seemed to drop into a combat-ready stance, hands tightening around his tools, centre of gravity lowered. He relaxed only when he took in his assistant’s face, and even then, his shoulders remained visibly tense.

“I didn’t hear you come in.” He said, a little breathlessly, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead and swiping his thumb and forefinger across his eyes and the bridge of his nose. Eggsy ignored his state, craning around Harry to look at the project. A jacket, still in its infancy, of rich navy wool accented with a subtle pattern of ivory pinstripes.

“Classy,” Eggsy commented, nodding his approval, “need a hand with it?” Harry shook his head,

“That’s quite all right, Eggsy, thank you.” Eggsy endeavoured not to balk at the terseness of Harry’s tone. The tailor cleared his throat and added, “If you would change the display jackets, however, I’d be much obliged.” Eggsy obeyed, concluding dejectedly that any bridge between them had been well and truly burned. Harry spent the day avoiding Eggsy like the plague, finding excuses not to be in the same room when the two were alone in the shop. He apparently had an errand to run at lunch, leaving Eggsy to petulantly pick at the carrot and coriander soup Harry had brought in for them. Eggsy began to resent those lunches over the next few days, even more so the meals they shared at home, sumptuous dishes shared with barely a word spoken between them. Eggsy wished Harry would abandon this prim passive-aggression and just kick him out, but knew that the other man’s unyielding propriety would preclude any action that might bring any tension out into the open. By close of business Wednesday, the thought of spending another night hiding away in Harry’s guest room had driven Eggsy to the brink. He helped Harry lock up, but declined a lift home, instead taking a detour to a local florist for a bouquet of their most economical carnations.

———

“Who’s died then?” Michelle asked, stunned, gesturing to her son’s starched work clothes and the flowers in his hand.

“Nobody, I don’t think.” He replied, handing her the bouquet, “I thought maybe we could go someplace.” Michelle cocked her head at him, skeptically. Eggsy laughed, “What? A boy can’t just take his mum out for a nice meal?” She led him into the flat, looking around the kitchen for a vase for the flowers.

“He can, but he never has done.” Eggsy rolled his eyes, affectionately.

“C’mon, get dressed.”

Michelle was immediately ill-at-ease when they walked through the door of the bistro. She could count on one hand the number of times in the last two decades she’d been somewhere where orders weren’t taken at a counter and the whole place wasn’t lit with harsh fluorescent tubes. Eggsy spoke to the hostess at her podium.

“Unwin,” he said, “two.” She nodded and led them to a table in the centre of the dining room. Michelle smiled, proud but wry.

“Oh, just look at you.” She teased. She opened the menu and failed to conceal her sticker shock, inhaling sharply as she took in the prices beneath each dish. Eggsy chuckled and shrugged. They made their drink orders, followed by their meals, at which point Michelle began to relax. She and Eggsy chatted, keeping things light.

“How’s work going, then?” She asked as their appetizers arrived. Judging by the groan that issued from his throat, Eggsy had clearly hoped to keep that particular subject beneath her radar.

“Fine,” he said, too quickly, “really good, actually.” He crammed a forkful of grilled shrimp into his mouth. Michelle eyed him, skeptically.

“I thought I taught you better than to lie to your mother.” She tapped her finger on the table, expectantly, and furrowed her brow sternly at him. Eggsy caved.

“I messed up,” he said, “and now things are…I think I might have ruined a really good thing.” Michelle gave a solemn nod.

“You’re only human, darling.” She began, “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but whatever happened can’t be as bad as all that. The geezer hasn’t sacked you, has he?” She laughed.

“Not yet.” Eggsy confirmed, “I’m just not sure I can fix it.” Michelle sighed, sympathetically,

“Well, making yourself lose sleep over it’s not going to solve anything, is it? From what I can tell, you’ve been doing everything you’re meant to. One mistake isn’t going to undo all that.” Shockingly, Eggsy’s mood seemed to improve after that. Lucky, too, as she’d come up with her entire spiel on the spot, and hadn’t thought it terribly insightful. Still, he thanked her and, as they left the restaurant, hugged her tightly. She kissed his cheek and told her that she loved him, Eggsy told her he did, too. As she watched him make his way toward the bus stop, she felt like a real mother to him for the first time in years.

———

Eggsy felt a weight had been lifted the whole way back to Harry’s. He felt he had maybe been a little childish — not that Harry had been behaving much better — playing spiteful little games instead of forcing himself to do the grown-up thing and have an uncomfortable conversation. He reminded himself that he had a job to do, and that part of that job was having a civil relationship with his employer. By laying his feelings out to plainly, he had taken a risk, and he knew he would have to deal with the consequences. Easier said than done, certainly, but a necessary ordeal. He stepped through the door and caught sight of Harry in the kitchen, a bottle of whisky open beside him, staring intently into a glass of ice. He turned when he heard the door and offered a tired smile.

“Eggsy,” he said, wearily, “join me.” His posture and expression sagged, but his gaze was clear and sober. Eggsy pulled up a stool at the island and Harry took a seat beside him. He sighed, “I have been…foolish.” He began, “Avoiding you these last few days was petty to say the least.” Eggsy’s heart began to pound in his chest. It was still unclear where Harry was heading with this, and it was an effort to keep from jumping to conclusions. He cleared his throat,

“That’s one way to put it.” He croaked.

“Especially considering that avoiding you is the last thing I want to do.” As he spoke, Harry’s hand found its way around Eggsy’s and gave a tight squeeze. Eggsy held his gaze, searching for what felt like a long time for any hint of insincerity and finding none. He swallowed, thickly. He tried to remind himself that he had made a decision, that he was going to move on, but now, with Harry so close, their fingers intertwined, he found that thought slipping away.

“So,” he breathed, nerves taut, “you’re saying…”

“If you’ll still have me.” Harry replied, an almost bashful smile appearing at one corner of his mouth. Eggsy called on every iota of self control he had to keep himself from crawling right into his lap.

“Yes, Harry,” he sighed, gratefully, leaning in for a kiss.

Eggsy had never actually seen the inside of Harry’s bedroom before, he realized as they tore haphazardly through the door. Hell of a grand tour, he thought. Harry pushed him up against a wall and buried his face in Eggsy’s neck, biting and sucking on his feverish skin. This new side to Harry, unabashed and hungry, excited Eggsy. He lifted Harry into a kiss, feeling the other man growl deep into his throat. Eggsy wondered how long it had been since Harry had shown this side to anyone, or even to himself, but then Harry’s hand was cupping his ass and he put existential questions aside. He shut his eyes and let out a high, cracking moan. When he opened them again, he was lying on his back in the middle of Harry’s bed, the buttons of his shirt being opened at a tantalizing pace.

“Please,” he panted. Harry kissed him again and ran those nimble, tailor’s hands over his chest and down his sides, gliding gently over the last yellow shadows of bruising. He treated Eggsy like something precious, every inch of exposed flesh worth exploring and cherishing. He whispered in Eggsy’s ear how good he was, how beautiful, drawing out tiny sounds of pleasure with every touch and word. Eggsy was dizzy by the time they were both spent. He lay back to catch his breath, stars blooming and fading in his eyes as he stared at the blank ceiling. He barely noticed when Harry began tolift the medallion from his chest.

“I hadn’t thought you’d keep wearing it.” He remarked, laughing. Eggsy gave a sleepy smile.

“Maybe I should’ve taken it off,” he said, “covered his eyes at least. This mean I’m going to hell?” Harry lay down and brought Eggsy’s head onto his chest with a contented sigh.

“You’ll be in good company, at least.”

———

Eggsy felt stupid for thinking everything could be solved by a ten second conversation and a few rolls in the hay. While one tension had been broken, from its remains had risen a number of other, more serious issues that neither one had taken the time to address. They shared a bed most nights, unless either one actually wanted a good night’s sleep, and Harry didn’t shy away from affection when they were alone, but they had yet to take the time to outline the nature of their relationship and its boundaries. To begin with, Eggsy was a lot more attached to Harry than he let on, and he couldn’t convince himself that the feeling could be mutual. Every day he had to disabuse himself of the naive notion of Harry as some salvation, a buoy to cling to in the hurricane that had been his life so far. He told himself that he could cope with the asymmetry of their relationship. He could be a bit of rough trade, or a fling or a concubine or whatever someone like Harry might call it, just as long as it meant he could stay a little while longer in Harry’s warm, soft little world. Whenever they were together, he found himself second-guessing every word and action, tamping down the constant terror of coming across too needy and pushing Harry away, of being alone again. He crawled into bed each night, drained, and let Harry curl himself around his body, the weight that had once been so comforting slowly suffocating him.

———

The dreary weather should have been an omen, but pathetic fallacy had always struck Harry as trite. There was something uneasy in the air from the moment they awoke. Eggsy seemed fractious, swerving out of the way of a kiss on the cheek and avoiding conversation over breakfast. For all his many talents, when it came to handling emotional delicacies, he was all at sea. He knew he should be frank with Eggsy, to present himself as plainly as the other had done. He deserved to know how Harry felt, how much respect he had for the young man. Their relationship would never be simple; the strange coincidence of their histories, the chasms of age and class would inevitably cause strife. Harry knew he was prepared to meet those challenges, but he had yet to find the words to explain that to Eggsy. Instead, he hoped his actions would speak for him, though the cold shoulder he received as Eggsy declined a lift into work in favour of public transportation indicated fairly bluntly that they were lacking. He had been preparing a grand gesture for weeks, and decided today was the perfect day to make it. A distant roll of thunder sounded as Harry climbed into the car, which he took only as a sign of impending rain.


	9. Chapter 9

Eggsy didn’t like the way Harry was acting today. He was hiding something, and Eggsy’s inability to parse it made him feel like he had hot fleas crawling under his skin. They had close to a dozen fittings, meaning the two of them were working in close quarters for hours. Eggsy fetched brown paper and pincushions and marked measurements, trying surreptitiously to read the other man’s mind behind the backs of their clients to no avail. His teeth were sore by the end of the day from how tightly he’d been clenching his jaw. He flipped the sign and began sweeping up when Harry called his name from the workroom.

“Would you come here for a moment?” He asked. To his surprise, when he walked through the doorway Harry was not hunched over some last minute stitching, but standing upright, ready to receive him. He had a smile on his face and a white envelope grasped in his right hand. Eggsy furrowed his brow,

“What’s going on?” He demanded. Harry held out the envelope toward him and launched into what could only be a prepared monologue.

“When I met you, I said you had potential.” He said, “In these past months, you have not only lived up to my expectations, but far exceeded them.” Eggsy tentatively took the envelope, opening it with a skeptical look in the other man’s direction.

“What’re you on about, Harry?” He sighed, wearily. Looking inside the envelope, he saw what appeared to be an ordinary paycheque. “What’s this supposed to be?” Harry beamed,

“The last vestiges of your debt.” Harry replied, “As of today, you have fulfilled your contract. I wish you nothing but good fortune in all your future endeavours.” He turned and picked up a white cardboard box, holding it out towards Eggsy, who didn’t move.

“You’re sacking me?” He demanded. He felt queasy. Harry was taken aback, putting aside the box and bringing a hand, scandalized, to his chest.

“No,” he responded, baffled, “I simply thought, since you are no longer required to—” Eggsy wasn’t hearing it. Harry could dress it up any way he wanted, but Eggsy had known this was coming. Harry was done with him, and now it was time for him to pack up his shit and make himself scarce.

“Whatever, I get the picture, mate.” Eggsy shoved the cheque into his pocket and stormed out of the store, turning the collar of his jacket up against the rain.

He walked for at least an hour, scarcely paying attention to his route, until he got back to the block. He was worn out from the journey, pausing to rest in the stairwell before climbing up to his flat. The door hung off-kilter on its hinges and the place looked like it had been deserted for a while. He took in the faded carpets, the dingy sofa and streaky windows, all of it familiar, but none of it welcoming. He drifted into his room and lay down on the bed, self-pity weighing him down even more than his sodden clothes. He was angry at himself more than at Harry. Angry that he had gotten ideas above his station, angry that despite what he had tried to remind himself every day, being chucked by Harry had broken his heart. He wiped the tears from his burning eyes and dug into his shirt for the sacramental, taking it off his neck and shoving it into his bedside drawer. This wasn’t _My Fair Lady_ , he thought bitterly, and Harry wasn’t Rex Harrison.

———

Eggsy’s mates informed him that Dean was in jail awaiting trial on a GBH charge. Apparently some poor bastard had looked at him wrong one night at the pub and Dean had nearly put him into a coma. With the coast more or less clear, Eggsy returned to the rhythm of his old life once he got through feeling sorry for himself. He spent his days selling cheap pot to public school kids and his nights spending his earnings on tall cans and chips with Ryan and Jamal. They had been ecstatic to see him back in the old neighbourhood, embracing him warmly as he walked through the door of the chippy for the first time in what felt like years.

“We thought you was dead, bruv!” Ryan laughed,“Your mum rang my mum a few weeks ago, but nobody heard nothing from you.” Eggsy shrugged, trying on a disaffected smile,

“Just laying low,” he said, “finishing out my community service.”

“It’s good to have you back, man.” Jamal said, sincerely. They toasted and Eggsy felt a twinge of nostalgia, adamantly ignoring the sense of loss which undercut it.

It didn’t take long for the old ways to lose their lustre. The days began to stretch on endlessly. It astonished Eggsy just how much time there was in 24 hours. He tried getting out of the neighbourhood and spending time with Roxy, but that was hardly helping.

“I really think you should talk to him.” She said one day over an afternoon pint.”Honestly, you act like you’re the first person in history to have relationship trouble.” Eggsy scoffed,

“This ain’t ‘relationship trouble’, Rox, cause there ain’t a relationship.” He insisted, “I guess I got the wrong idea for a bit, but I’m all sorted out now, believe me.” Roxy rolled her eyes.

“At least do something.” She begged, impatiently, “If you insist on moping about like this I’ll have to disinvite you from my engagement party.”

“Whatever.” Eggsy drawled, turning away defiantly. A moment later, her words registered in his brain, “Wait, what?” He looked back at Roxy, who was beaming. She held up her hand for Eggsy to see, displaying a white gold ring set with a deep purple stone.

“Yeah, that’s right,” she reprimanded, “so you’d better turn that frown upside down before next Saturday evening, mister, or you’re not getting in the door.” Eggsy laughed,

“Fine,” he agreed, “but I ain’t moping.” Roxy shook her head with a smile and got up to leave, thanking him with only a touch of sarcasm in her voice. “Wear something nice!” She called as she made her way up the street.

“Rox,” Eggsy shouted after her, “congratulations!”

———

Wear something nice, Roxy had said, a proposition that posed a significant challenge. He spent the next week wracking his brain and tearing apart his closet with no clue where to even begin. His work clothes would hardly suffice for a high-class do, and it wasn’t as though any of his friends could lend him anything. He rang Roxy a few days before the party for clarification on the dress code.

“It’s not Ascot,” she said, unhelpfully, “but my father’s throwing it, and he’s a bit old-fashioned.” She went on to tell him that he was trying to prove his progressiveness by celebrating his daughter’s lifestyle, but that she wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one taking most advantage of the open bar. Eggsy thanked her and returned to searching his wardrobe for anything not made of polyester. He laid out all his passable clothing on the bed and shook his head, hopelessly. He hoped he could find something at the charity shop that would at least pass muster in low light. Eggsy gathered his coat and headed out to the terrace, tripping over a large, white cardboard box on his doorstep.

“The fucking bin’s downstairs!” He called to no one in particular. Eggsy picked up the box to throw it away before noticing the tag hanging from one side with his name on it. Subsequently, he noticed the Kingsman logo embossed on the box itself. He brought it into the flat and laid it on the kitchen table. After considering it for a moment, Eggsy realized that he recognized the box as the one Harry had tried to present to him when he’d thrown his little hissy fit and stormed out. He cut away the strings and lifted off the top. Inside, beneath a layer of white tissue paper was a neat, double-breasted jacket of pinstriped navy wool. He touched it apprehensively, as though it might burn on contact, and took it out to hang over the dining chair. Beneath the matching trousers and starched white shirt lay a piece of rigid notecard lined with Harry’s meticulous cursive. He gingerly picked it up, steadying his quivering hands as he read.

_Eggsy_ ,

_you are an outstanding assistant and an exemplary young man. It would be my honour to have you remain by my side at Kingsman and in life._

_If you’ll have me_

_Yours,_

_H.H._

Eggsy sat down hard in the chair and cursed himself for the absolute twat he had been. He knew he should apologize, but how? Clintons didn’t make a card with “I’m sorry my deep-seated emotional issues made me run away from the best thing that’s ever happened to me”. He sighed and looked again at the suit. At least his wardrobe problems were solved.

———

Eggsy stepped out of a taxi on Saturday evening onto the grounds of a house that probably cost more than the council had spent on his entire building. He fiddled with his pocket square as he climbed the steps to the front door. An older man in a tailcoat and white gloves met him and asked his name.

“Eg…er, Gary Unwin.” He replied, nervously, trying to temper the cockney in his voice. The doorman checked a list and nodded,

“Welcome, sir.” He said, and stepped aside, ushering Eggsy into the grand foyer. Past the first hurdle, he allowed himself a tiny moment of relief. Truly amazing what a good suit could do. No one seemed to pay him any mind whatsoever. No narrowed glances, no snide remarks from other guests. He felt bulletproof. He just hoped no one tried to ask him about his last fox hunt. Scanning the room, he was disappointed to see neither Roxy nor Amelia, and began to occupy himself by nervously quaffing sparkling wine on an empty stomach. After a few minutes, the lights dimmed and the couple made their entrance, accompanied by a string quartet. They appeared at the top of the grand staircase at the centre of the room, Roxy proudly in her Kingsman suit, Amelia in a demure gold and cream gown. Eggsy caught their eyes and pumped his fist in the air a couple of times, earning gleaming smiles and matching gestures from each of the brides-to-be.

———

After making the rounds for a few minutes, Roxy rushed toward Eggsy and threw her arms around his shoulders.

“You clean up good.” He laughed, a little winded. “Hi Amelia.” He waved.

“You’re not so bad yourself.” Roxy replied, plucking at his lapels.

“I think we have the same tailor.” Eggsy remarked. Roxy agreed,

“You mean the distinguished but forlorn gentleman standing all alone in the corner there?” She pointed behind him and Eggsy whipped his head around. Through the crowd, he could indeed see Harry, sipping genteelly on a flute of champagne and looking like James Bond’s dad. It seemed natural that Roxy would invite him, if only because she had a sick sense of humour. Harry suddenly turned in their direction, and Eggsy tried quickly to look away. Not quickly enough, he cursed. Their eyes met, uncertainly, each plainly calculating the myriad next moves at their disposal. After only slightly too long, Eggsy decided to take a deep breath and venture across the floor.

“Hello, Harry.” He said, as casually as possible.

“Good evening,” Harry replied, “you look very nice.” Eggsy hoped he wasn’t blushing.

“Do you think we could go somewhere and talk?” An expression of surprise briefly flashed over Harry’s face, but he agreed, leading Eggsy down a long hallway away from the other guests.

They stepped into a cavernous parlour, all mahogany shelves and red leather armchairs, the warm light of imitation gas lamps giving it an affected antiquity. Harry gently closed the door behind them and wandered to the centre of the room. He didn’t say anything, just looked expectantly at Eggsy, who cleared his throat,

“First, I want to say that I’m really sorry,” he began, forcing himself to make eye contact, “and thank you. For the suit, and the card, and a lot of other things.” Harry relaxed, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

“I feel I should apologize as well.” He said, “There are things about which I should have been more forthcoming, more transparent.” Eggsy smiled.

“How’s that possible when you only talk in nine-syllable words?” Harry laughed and stepped forward, bringing up a hand to grasp Eggy’s bicep.

“I’ve come to care about you a great deal,” he said in his best approximation of bluntness, “and I’m so sorry that I’ve failed to communicate that thus far.” Eggsy rolled his eyes affectionately, a smile spreading across his lips.

“That’ll do.” He said, cupping the back of Harry’s neck and pulling him into a kiss that felt like coming home. Harry’s hands wound around Eggsy’s waist and steered them into one of the chairs. Eggsy fell into Harry’s lap and laced his fingers through the other man’s salt-and-pepper hair, gladly opening his mouth to Harry’s insistent tongue. They broke apart for air when Eggsy began to feel lightheaded and shared a giddy smile.

“I’ve missed that.” Harry said, breathlessly, “You have no idea.” He leaned forward again, but Eggsy pressed a hand over his mouth.

“We can’t just go back to the way it was.” He panted, firmly.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, dropping his mouth into the crook of Eggsy’s neck. Eggsy chuckled, warmly, but continued on.

“I can’t just move back in with you, unless you’re looking to take in my mum and baby sister, too.” Harry nodded, solemnly,

“Of course,” he said, “I was thinking selfishly.” Eggsy pressed a small kiss to the corner of his mouth,

“Cheer up, man,” he scoffed, “I’m not chucking you!” After a moment, he added, “You haven’t found a new assistant, have you?”

———

By Monday, Eggsy had been reinstated as assistant tailor at Kingsman as though he had never left. His status as a gainfully employed member of society had also given him some clout when it came to speaking to landlords, and it wasn’t long before he and Michelle had been handed the keys to a modest but well-maintained flat not far from Harry’s. He told Harry the good news as they closed up the shop for the weekend.

“Mum’s out handing resumes around and Daisy’s got her own room. I keep waiting for something to go wrong.” He laughed, “Thank you, Harry, I owe it all to you.”

“You don’t owe me anything anymore.” Harry said, pulling Eggsy close, “Though I hope that doesn’t mean you’ll stop coming around.” Eggsy laughed,

“Oh, Mr. Darcy!” Harry sighed, wearily and pointedly turned away to hide the affectionate smile he was failing to suppress.

“Cheeky…” he muttered. Eggsy kissed him on the cheek.

“Love you too.” He teased, and made for the door. He couldn’t help the skip in his step as he walked home that evening. As before, nothing was perfect. There were still a lot of difficult conversations he and Harry would need to have, not to mention the one with his mother, but he would cross those bridges as he came to them. 


End file.
